Vox Dei
by The.Dust.Of.Jack
Summary: Matsuda Touta tells the world the truth about Light Yagami, L and Kira. Warnings - true name spoilers, very very serious plot spoilers, not AU actually, haha, and shameless stealing the style of House of Leaves.
1. Introduction

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**Vox Dei **

The Complete Remastered Edition

2/21/2010

_Tsugumi Ohba, Takashi Obata, Jack U. Rosart_

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* * *

Jack U. Rosart's

* * *

**Vox Dei**

by

Matsuda Touta

with introduction and foot_note_s by

Nate River

2nd Edition  
Century Gintis Books New York London Tokyo

* * *

Copyright © 2057 by Matsuda Kenji

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in Japan, England and the United States by Century Gintis Books, a division of Ellison's, Inc., and simultaneously in Canada by Ellison's Canada Limited, Toronto.

Century Gintis Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Ellison's, Inc.

Permissions acknowledged and illustrations credits appear on pages _Unavailable_.

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data  
Matsuda, Touta  
Vox Dei / Touta Matsuda  
p. cm.  
ISBN 0-435-3456-4 (pbk)  
ISBN 0-435-7534-5 (hc)  
ISBN 0-435-2333-2 (hc/signed)  
1. Title  
PS2331.A5312H97 2071 645'.76–dc67 99-43241 CIP  
Ellison's, Inc. Web Address: EllisonsIncorporated dot com  
Voxdei dot jp

Printed in Japan  
**_First Edition_**  
25 24 23 22 21

We believe this novel is a work of fiction. Any reference to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locals are intended only to give the reader a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, as are those fictionalised events and incidents which involve real persons and did not occur or are set in the future. We hope. – The Ed.

A _note_ on this Edition:

Full Colour:

- The word _note_ in red; the word language in blue. The word **tower** in orange.  
- All **_strike outs _**in green.  
- The only struck out passage in chapter XXV appears in _purple_.  
- Xxxxxxx, Morse code and colour plates.

2-Colour:

- The word _note_ appears in red and the word language in blue. The word **tower** in orange.  
- No coloured **_strike outs_**.  
- No Braille.  
- Few colour plates.  
- Scraps not coloured.

_**Black & white**_:

- No colour for the word _note_ or language or **tower**.  
- No coloured **_strike outs_**.  
- No Braille.  
- Black & white plates.  
- Only Latin characters.  
- Logs uncoloured and may be incomplete.  
- No scraps

Incomplete:

- No colour.  
- No Braille.  
- No plates.  
- Only Latin characters.  
- No translations.  
- Elements in the appendices, index and foot_note_s may be missing.  
- No introduction.

The Full-Colour addition will soon be available on gabriel-isnt dot deviantart.

* * *

Contents

_Unavailable_

* * *

Foreword

The first edition of _Vox Dei _was privately distributed in 2055 to few select people, and

not available to the general public due to the author's last wishes. It did not contain Chapter 25, any of the Logs, Appendix _Unavailable_ or the Index. Every effort has been made to provide appropriate translations for every separate language, and to accurately credit all sources which are available to be credited. This is done on page _Unavailable_. We apologise in advance for any mistakes and are open to corrections in subsequent printings all errors and omissions brought to our attention.

We must warn in advance that this is a book that is a disturbing account of the past. We believe it to be fictional though, but have included this warning for those who are still disturbed by previous events that are mentioned due to the historical nature of the book.

We know that Matsuda Touta was involved heavily, so we have not taken his words lightly, but we cannot rule out the possibilities of him suffering from dementia or memory loss in his later years.

Unfortunately, we cannot track down Nate River, who seemed to firmly believe what Matsuda Touta has written. If we could, he could tell us whether or not it is all true.

* * *

_This is not for you._

* * *

Introduction

Unlike what Mihael has said before now, I myself knew some stories too. He would never believe me, of course, for that was not the type of person he was. He was a passionate, fiery individual who charged ahead without thinking too much about it.  
Alternatively, he could also think too much. Either way he did it, I still think to this day, suicide was a given.  
Mihael was killed on the 26th of January in 2010. He left little, but a crudely written book in Japanese about a story a long since deceased detective had told him about an adventure: an exciting, mysterious case he had tackled with an assistant in America. It sold well between cults and history students, though it may not have been completely true. Said detective was a liar, a cheat and a scoundrel of a man from what I have heard from those who knew him well and survived him. But the man wasn't one for friends – which is something that does not surprise me, assuming that he really was a cheat, a liar and a scoundrel – so there have been few to talk of him. Unfortunately, the ones there are to talk to all shared this similar opinion, as well as saying that not only was he this, but he was also a genius, a fighter of justice, and a little odd. I never really properly spoke to him out of the two times I met him myself, so I wouldn't be able to say with much confidence what he was really like.

There were many of us once; genii or geniuses depending on the country and particular rules of grammar set to each individual language, that fought for the law. Over the space of six years the best of us were killed off, except for myself. I had to take the place at the top, which I was sure to receive anyway, whether I wanted it or not. I had certainly admired that position, but not so much with the whole, messy incident that had thrust the previously private seat of power into the public light, but I had to sit upon the throne which was being warmed for me as I grew by the worst enemy the world has faced before. The most dangerous. A face many can still recall some forty-five years later. I am a man of old now, and have outlived my predecessor twice over. In eleven years it'll be a third time round – thrice the life of the greatest detective in the world, it seems. In five years I'll have outlived my greatest enemy for the third time. I could continue, figuring out how much

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older I am than Mihael when he was killed – forty-three years – and Mail – forty-two. I was the youngest, the smallest, the weakest. And yet it was I who won, and it was I who was left standing. Yes, I had a small team of elites, all of whom were brilliant people with few matches besides my side to help me, but they were thrown unawares into a world of people with no matches; people of great skill, mental ability and killer tricks. It was a world where the man we were out to catch had no face, no real name, no clues leading us to him – just a rising cult of worshippers who did not realise that their God was merely human.

Forty-five years of freedom doesn't console me on the lives that were lost – thousand of people unjustly killed over things they were either already being punished for or who were innocent in the law's eyes. Then the actual innocent who fought so hard to protect the world were killed on the base of 'sacrifice' or 'necessity' or for the crime of 'hindering the creation of an impossible utopia'. Of course, by now you are either on the same wavelength as me or you are simply too young. The second is an option I doubt. You can never be too young to learn things of old. When I was a child we learnt about the problems in Northern Ireland in history class. That was nothing compared to this. If even one person does not know of the existence of such a terrible being that haunted this planet forty-five years ago then the blood and sweat spent by so many seems like time that was spent chasing air; a waste; unimportant. Time we would have better spent making him a throne, perhaps? As a key part in the investigation I myself feel uncomfortable saying that it was energy that could have been spent doing other things, like brushing up on our bowing skills.  
Of course, I do not believe that.

Matsuda Touta disliked me greatly. He thought me as the reason everything went wrong. I like to think that maybe I was.  
Matsuda-san had been in the investigation since it started in Japan, had been in the meeting that announced the involvement of the famous detective. This gives him a perspective I cannot give; one I cannot dream of having. When my own investigation started, I had a lot of previous work to help me, years of it, and that I will freely admit for it is the truth. Mihael did as well but wouldn't say as much, and therefore we had a good starting point to base all our work from. We had the murder weapon, quite literally, and all the bloody fingerprints staining it. We had places to start, solid ideas to fall back on, and all the money we could ever need to support us. After some consideration I have decided reword that to clearly illustrate the fact that I had money to support me, and Mihael liked pretending that he did not.  
Matsuda-san had none of this. He had no idea where to start, had no helping hand, and had to work with scraps of evidence that a

XIV

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seemingly untrustworthy source had picked up through evil perception and a defined lack of morals. He had to, else he would get nowhere.

When I met Matsuda-san for the first time I didn't think much of him: there wasn't much to think. He was blinded by love and faith, and heart-broken when this trust he had was ripped away from him gruesomely. But with this showed layers to him I hadn't seen initially, and I was sure they were layers no one else had not been shown either. All had seemed surprised with his handiness with a gun, and if not for the grief overriding most of his emotions it would have seemed that he was comfortable with the object resting heavy and loaded in his hand, despite his apparent meekness and high-levels of childish naivety. I, of course, was not expecting such a thing of the man, and it was clear most to all others were feeling a similar emotion of blatant astonishment. None more so than the man on the receiving end of the bullets, for sure.  
That was below my usual humour. I apologise.

When I first learnt of this manuscript found under the late Matsuda-san's bed by his oldest son, with my personal phone number tucked in to the first few pages, I was initially amazed that he'd even kept the contact details I gave him and the entire investigation taskforce soon after my last meeting of them all those years ago – as I've said, Matsuda-san did not like me very much. It was clear he'd thought of it only when he realised I was the last one who will be able to confirm this. We were both the youngest in our two teams, and the only one besides Mrs. Loud _née _Bullook, who are still alive to this day. He wouldn't have had any way or particular want to contact Mrs. Loud, and even if he had he would have found her quite useless as a reliable testimony, as the woman is incarcerated, for lack of a more delicate term due to inappropriateness, in a care home due to her deterring mental health which is down to her age as well as the trauma caused by the loss of her husband.  
After the initial feeling, I was naturally saddened by the loss of a great investigator, and then once again surprised as I learned of the contents of the manuscript of the book.  
His son had already read it several times over, from cover to index and back again, and thus knew me only by my first alias: the name that was on the card. It was a horrible feeling to be called that name again, as it was something I wasn't used to. But he informed me, without realizing my great discomfort, of the fact he was in the mind to publish it. I had wished to advise against it almost instantly, as it could cause much damage to society as we know it, but knew that he was not going to listen to me. Instead I requested to read it first, and he assured me that I could. He also said that I was going to receive my own personal copy free of charge, as were all those I knew of that were mentioned who were still alive,

XV

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and the family of those who weren't. As I've previously said, it was only Mrs. Loud, Matsuda-san and myself that was still breathing, and now Matsuda-san was also deceased. Three days later I received a copy of the book, and I read it through exactly nineteen times before allowing myself an opinion.  
I was frankly stunned that Matsuda-san had even dared to do what he did: to say something so potentially destructive in such a bold way was suicide. Or, I would say that if he hadn't already died. I was merely thankful that the Yagami family had all since died out as well – a line that was long gone even before the last few had fallen down from grief and loneliness – for it would have hit them worse of all those who are to mentioned in the following pages. In fact, I doubt it would have been published had the Yagami's been alive still, as there would be a distinct possibility that after the releasing of the book they might not have been much longer.  
I realised that Matsuda-san, despite the brave faces he wore when we last spoke of such things written in this account, was bitter and broken about the ending of the story (not a story at the time of course; a horror, definitely, and one we all had to live – and die - through) that we had all decided on; an ending that had preserved the memories of better times rather than showed the truth, and it was frank, transparently so, by the time I had read it through for the twentieth time that he wanted the history books set straight.  
Those books each individual government release say what the public saw, and not being in the public, Matsuda-san quite understandably didn't understand, or, at least, didn't agree with what they were saying. He had seen it all from the inside, knowing everything backwards, all the progress being committed to memory out of sheer paranoia, and being right next to the leading detective and prime suspects all the way through. He couldn't see how the investigation team looked like they weren't able to do their jobs; how incompetent they looked to the general public. But the general public didn't understand how much very few people were expected to do, and this release of this book shows that Matsuda-san has now decided to speak once and for all. You will see, if you continue on, how it was from the inside; the truth. The one we agreed on not telling.  
But word of mouth is not binding, and Matsuda had long since lost care in trusting many others.  
Again, that was perhaps my fault.

My own story began not when I was born or when I left the orphanage I grew up in for the first time; rather it was when my first big investigation closed and I had a title that was covered with grime. I could use metaphors and pretty similes to paint a beautiful picture of words to describe how I was expected to clean

XVI

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said title up, but it seems easier to say that it was more than just mere expectation: it was my duty.  
If I didn't live up to the heavy weight the title gave and if I didn't prove myself, then there would be no point in having it. There would be hundreds of innocents I let down, hundreds of criminals I let walk free, and an increase in crime rate of almost twelve percent. I don't think my pride would let me do such a thing, never mind my sense of purpose and being. I even have the pressure of my peers (most of them dead, but still heavy about my shoulders) needing evidence that I can do the job right, those who look up to me expecting me to save them, and those who wish to take me over waiting for me to do wrong. I am not yet dead, but already my supposed successors are climbing all over each other like insects and trying to overthrow me. I'm sorry to say that many have almost succeeded. Despite me always being the one who comes out top in these battles, there have been far too many close calls, especially in the last few years, for my liking. It's a bloody pool now, being a successor; practically a death sentence. Not that it wasn't in the first place. There were five famous original 'ideals'. I was the youngest, and perhaps I was the cleverest, but besides me they're all now dead – all at a young age; all murdered. Two by mine and Matsuda-san's mutual enemy (one that possibly still haunts my unconscious unawares to me), one by said mutual enemy's followers. One murdered by his own hand and the heavy expectations he could not meet by merely being a successor.  
Being a successor leads you into dangerous situations. Several of my own potentials have similarly died trying to impress me as those four died trying to get to, or escape, or avenge the ones we were succeeding.  
I wonder if that made any sense. I refuse to read over, but I know that it did in my head. I just hope I am not becoming senile; I hoped I was above such a thing.  
I think I'm one of few to be at this level in the world and grow old. I know there are others, such as an old friend Linda, but I think I am the first. I hope I am one of many more to come. I look forward to the day we are all old, successful in our endeavours, and clever. Because that is something I know I am, and know I always will be. It is why I am able to sit here and say I am the most powerful man in the world. Privately.  
By the time this is read, republished and available to the public I still hope to be alive. But I am a detective, and accidents always happen. But, to be optimistic, because I am a detective I am thus an established and well practised sleuth. Even with my name, you do not know my face. And this is my greatest defence, as I have always known since I started the case that follows in this book.  
This may one day replace the text books which are published due to curriculum. There is less truth in them than there was in the

XVII

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mouth of the accused; the real killer. And that, I must admit, is an achievement.  
I digress.

Several years ago, back when I was twenty years of age, I was almost overwhelmed in a sea of hatred and misguided religions. Although I myself have never been a religious being, there are many others whom I know, rely on, and even remember with great fondness, whom were religious, and I respect those beliefs. I must return to the subject of Mihael, whom was perhaps the greatest influence over my life at the time. Mihael was not a catholic when I first knew him, but was bestowed belief unto him, saw the light, etc, when he first learnt that his idol had spent his last ten days toying with the idea of God, and praying that ten days was enough to repent and be forgiven for the monstrous acts he'd committed against basic human morals. How Mihael had managed to track the man's last ten days down was something I marvelled at for a long time. I know I too was able of such a thing, but he had done it in days, without even leaving the country to talk to the priest in Japan who had seen the man once a day for _dix jours pluvieux**[1] **_whilst Mihael himself was in England stealing from a locked room and learning about the American Mafia.  
I respected Mihael's beliefs when he accepted God and Jesus into his heart. And I respect any other belief that people may present to me with pure heart and true love for their religion, assuming that they do not worship a long-since disappeared creature which killed and destroyed in way of giving and forgiving. I understand the wish to believe that something is actively protecting the virtuous, but that would be only… well, I'm unsure who or what that would refer to. No one and nothing is virtuous. Not even young children are intrinsically selfless, as they form attachments merely to survive, as they are physically vulnerable and thus incapable of survival without a protector, thus the need to form some sort of connection with a caregiver – usually the mother, or similarly a motherly-figure.  
Excuse me, I am not used to writing for so long. I did not mean to digress for a second time.  
We were discussing Mihael's religion for a point which is perhaps moot now, with no real meaning. I believe one must be on my wavelength by now, else I do not believe you would still be reading, unless you believe I am to provide answers. No, I am not here to provide answers. Yes, I shall provide helpful, albeit useless,

**_- - -  
[1] _**The Ed's translation: "ten rainy days", 10雨の日  
The original translations Nate River provided: десять дождливых дней, عشرة أيام المطر , Zehn regnerische Tage, Δέκα βροχερές ημέρες, Dieci giorni di pioggia, עשרה ימים גשומים, 장마 10 일, zece zile ploioase, dziesięć dni deszczowych, dez dias chuvosos, mvua ya siku kumi, tio regndagar, สิบ วัน ฝน ตก, on gün yağmurlu, צען רעגנדיק טעג, tien reënerige dae, 10個陰雨天  
The Ed: We think Nate River was just trying to be as difficult as possible.

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titbits of information, translation or correction where Matsuda-san's poor memory has failed him, and black spots he missed out altogether, but not answers. Today, that is not my job. Today my job is to assist you to draw up your own conclusions from crudely done inkblots if you understand my metaphor. To further sharpen the allegory, sit yourself down on a couch, do not face the listener sitting just beyond your eye line, and read out-loud. Do not censor, do not think, just say what you see, what you feel, what you believe. We are not listening to your conclusions, but we appreciate them all the same.

I told you earlier about how I learnt of the existence of Matsuda-san's part in the creation of this file and how he has started this idea of revelation and truth, but not of how I found the logs.  
The logs are in this book in their appropriate places; places Matsuda had either missed or had completely no knowledge of. There are always secrets in the middle of Taskforces as well as outside them.  
Originally they weren't here, the logs in this book I mean, because if those poor families knew they would surely have a heart attack, ironic or not. But, concerning an audience with little to no chance of ever tracing anything back to **_us_** me, much less actually believing what is said, the logs – and Matsuda Kenji-san's mutual agreement with me via long distance phone calls – have been included second time around, the author of them long since passed the point of telling us whether he wanted them published and read at hundreds of points by thousands of people all over the world. Even if he wasn't dead or happy about it, I wouldn't be one to care. The logs provided sound insight where Matsuda-san could not as previously mentioned, and were close to impossible to find. Of course, I am the best, so they were eventually dug up, but that doesn't mean they weren't appropriately hidden.  
That they weren't deleted suggests to me that they were designed to be found – that they authors didn't expect to live through to recall it by word of mouth and brilliant eidetic memory. But I'm not sure as to why they would want these logs to be found. As you will sure enough discover for yourself in the very near future, the logs are not full of vital information, evidence, or in fact anything of any real substance. It is a set of logs. They are day-to-day logs, tedious to read the first time, but fascinating the second time round. I will leave it up to you to discover why I say this. Subtext, as it is said, speaks louder than words. And there are many words. There are also pictures, photos, of a building which still exists. It was once a beautiful place – glass staircases, speeding lifts, two helicopters hidden on the roof, **tower**ing proud in the middle of Tokyo. It was left to me, and I found it crumbling to the point of disarray – proof enough that my predecessor had both

XIV

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a lot of money and the willingness to give it all up for this one moment in his life, as it was not built to last – and it was up to me to decide what to do with it. The easiest option was demolition, as it would cost me less than trying to fix it up. I couldn't figure out where half of the rooms were, and a lot of the technology was beyond even my comprehension, so I did leave it for a long time in order to figure it all out. I had neither the money or the time to do anything about Mihael's idol's last home; the place where I believe the older man died. It still stands abandoned in Tokyo, because even though now I have the money I have no care in fixing it up.

I did not know he was buried nearby though. I knew he wasn't charted off back to England when he died; back to where he was born and lived for a few brief years in his life, but was still the longest he'd lived in one place at one time ever. But I didn't know his last place of rest was in Tokyo. I didn't realise his enemy really wanted to keep him close, even after death.  
I am of course referring to the saying of, 'keep your friends close, and you enemies closer'. This is a saying I believe, due to years of experience and seeing with my own eyes the evidence which supports the idea of Michael Corleone**_[2]_** knowing what he was talking about, and which I also believe was the attitude taken when my predecessor was buried so close to the point of his enemy's base.  
You, after reading Matsuda-san's ideas as well as the logs, can make your own decision about how the maniac's mind worked. I wish he were still alive so I could figure him out. If there is one person I couldn't read well, it was him. You'll find him out soon, I shouldn't wonder, as I know you will continue on to find out. Especially if you know the contents this books contains; the knowledge you will receive in reading it. As I've said before, I'm not here to offer answers. Maybe I'm really here to inspire you to continue to read, hence all my cryptic messages and the breadcrumb trail of unanswered questions. But I will assure you now that I am not doing such a thing. I suppose I am writing my own confession of sorts.  
I am real.

- - -  
**_[2]_** By Michael Corleone, I of course mean the actor who played him in _The Godfather Part II_: Al Pacino. And when I say that, I of course don't actually mean him knowing what he is talking about. He is an actor, and although I have a great amount of respect for actors, they're still, for all intents and purposes, reading from a script. Perhaps the credit should be paid to the writers, Mario Puzo & Francis Ford Coppola instead. There is also talk of the idea that Sun Tzu, Niccollò Machiavelli or Petrarch said it also. Maybe it was Napoleon, but of course he could have been quoting too.†  
† The Ed: All of that section was taken thereabout from WikiAnswers to the question of who quoted "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer". Unfortunately, we can't tell if it's sarcastic irony that he had to look it up or not. We're debating he possibility of him merely knowing the passage by heart and is now being sarcastic about it.

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The first thing I said at the beginning of this confession of sorts is that I too knew some stories, regardless of what Mihael thought. Mihael was a very childish boy, and blind to reality if his emotions were involved. He was clever; a genius, and he was a good detective. But he was not when it came to matters of the heart. I bruised his pride by merely having an IQ higher than his, and I was the obstacle that stopped him from getting to the top. Therefore he did not like me. There were, of course, two people above us, and then a third that could have potentially by-passed us both if he had wanted in our race to get to the top of our childish game that determined our future – and by that I am talking about Mail; a game-loving computer genius who spent more time on Mario Karts than sleeping, which he enjoyed only a little less than electronics and food. He was perhaps the best of us, morally anyway – he was the only one of that was determined not to lie or to cheat his way through a puzzle, or a test, or a level because that was taking the whole fun out of the game. It might be a bad way to live, but with all the hours spent in front of a games console he had learnt to see things as one big game, whether it was Call of Duty (which he took very seriously) to Tetris (which he was concerned with at a similar level of soberness). More often than not he would play two games at a time, lest someone finally grow annoyed at his detachment from reality and chuck his handheld out the window or at something solid. It happened more often than not with Mihael as his best friend, who had more C19H28O2**_[3]_** than appearances should necessarily allow for, and too much energy to contain. So, adding two and two will make a keen and clear cut idea that when Mihael had one of Mail's Gameboys and an over abundant amount of aggression to vent, it is obvious to say that the only moral dilemma he would be facing would be which wall to chuck it at. So nature had set its course and Mail had developed a system of multi-tasking the same thing on two different consoles and developing the hearing skills of a cat in order to detect the sounds of angry Doc Martins pounding towards him in anger moment before he burst through the door. This was done in order to hide at least one of his games. But then, this wasn't too hard to a task to achieve, as the orphanage we were brought up in had squeaky floorboards. It probably still does.  
He also had to get two copies of each game, which taught him the illegal skills of downloading, covering his tracks, and more often than not, hacking. He ended up being able to trick anyone on the net, get around everything cybernetically and make other people pay for the things he wanted. It was a subtle art I enjoyed watching him put into practise. He didn't mind Mihael, the orphans or I knowing of his skills, as long as our carer were never to find out. All this he gained from merely the act of an over-emotional best friend being jealous of a games console. I would have thought it ridiculous had I not known Mihael or Mail personally. I know you're

- - -  
**_[3__]_** The Ed: Testosterone

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thinking this too. In fact, I have no doubt. Who are Mihael and Mail, you question. I would of course tell as I have few secrets any longer and the identity of two dead boys are not one of them, but to be blunt, I'm not sure I know. Not now. Not anymore.

There are clever people and then there are geniuses. I am a genius, according to my IQ tests. Then there are those who are even better; who are naturally so clever that they can't even openly admit it. They'll smile and thank people when they receive congratulations for one-hundred percent on a test, or several, but they'll remain humble and work hard even if they needn't have to. I hate those people – those who are better but can't see themselves as such. I am an arrogant person, and always have been as far back as I can remember. Maybe in my childhood I felt humbler, but due to my fully developed brain of now, I can only recall vivid images of my past and not emotions which were hidden behind it, or comprehension of what I could have been seeing then. I can't compare it as I no longer understand my simplistic mindset of learning and being taught.  
I probably dislike those people who are clever geniuses merely because I have never met one. They seem to be liked more than those who are not, as they can fit into all groups and categories in a neutral way that doesn't anger any one around them. It's a clever ability and one I was never successful in achieving. I'm anti-social, I will admit, but that comes from growing up expecting to be a recluse, so never bothering to learn how not to be a recluse as well. I was raised to be different as that was what I was going to grow up to be. It was a strange life, I realise this only after I escaped the shadow of a dead man, to grow up to be like someone else. I remember once, me sitting on the floor faced with a Rubik's Cube for the first time, and Mail was watching me watch it. We didn't speak, we didn't question, and most of the time we didn't even blink. He blindly played on his Gameboy Advance SP and I steadily completed a globe jigsaw of the world without paying it much attention.  
Both of us were secluded from the world and its horrors, too young to leave the Orphanage and without enough social ability to be apt in talking and conversing with many children. I occasionally allowed a talented artist, Linda, to draw me, and Mail had Mihael, which no doubt was enough of humans for a lifetime in one singular body. We didn't have many friends, and few words to speak to others. We didn't offer answers in classes, and eventually grew too clever to even show up. We didn't flutter from friends to friends or even have the confidence to flutter over to someone new like Mihael could – he was a regular social butterfly, which explained his ability to goad people into listening to him and agreeing with him even if they hadn't originally. I never realised social skills would ever find themselves useful up until the moment I was forced into using my defined lack of knowledge of social etiquette for a case. I admittedly am rambling at this point, but the idea was to show you

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how little we knew of the world. We stared at the Rubik's Cube – a gift, if you were wondering, which I had received for my 11th birthday from my carer – for over an hour, each knowing what one was vaguely, but neither being bothered to figure out why it wasn't doing anything. It was supposed to be puzzling and exciting, I had heard all the children talking about it at one point. But we couldn't see it, and Mail was far too interested in watching my own attempts at staring it down in hopes it'd sweat itself out into admitted what it does and how it is meant to amuse me than assist me in my attempts to figure the damned thing out. The hall was large, arching, and made of stone. It was uncomfortable and cold, even on that sunny day, and had colourful stained glass which cast beautiful reflections onto the stones I sat on, but neither of us was much interested, and neither did we particularly care. We wanted to know what the Rubik's Cube did; how it was supposed to elevate even a genius' boredom, and it was another twenty-three minutes passed the previous hour I spoke of before-hand until Mihael came to find Mail in his newest attempts to get the boy to play actual physical football with him and the other boys outside. He, of course, ignored me as he shook Mail, then – when he realised what Mail was watching with such fascination – turned to glare at me, and then down at the Rubik's Cube.  
"Are you both idiots, or something?" he had said, the comment aimed directly to insult me and to only genuinely question Mail. "It's a Rubik's Cube." He said, and I nodded.  
"I am aware of what it is." I had replied to him in a dreary monotone one can still hear in my voice even after so many years of trying to work it off – it's a habit of almost 25 years, all of which included my developing years, and thus it is proving incredibly difficult to change my hard wiring, is the idiom. I had then gone on to say to Mihael, "I am unaware of what I do with it."  
It wasn't a question, and I didn't really mind either way if he answered or didn't. I knew I was quite capable of sitting and staring and figuring out; just as capable, I will say, as I was to listening to him explain. But my hopes were not high in the chances of the latter. Mihael wasn't one to provide answers, going by the idea that those who didn't understand innately were not worth it, least of all me. But he had constantly had a new set of ways to surprise me.  
He picked up the Rubik's Cube which had all the sides on the right colours, as it was new, and turned around. When he turned back he chucked the Cube over to me, which I failed to catch. It skidded passed. As I watched it come to a stop I noticed the colours were all different now. Curious, I stared up at Mihael expecting more.  
He rolled his eyes, at both me and Mail who looked just as interested all of a sudden.  
"You twist it." He said simply. Mail raised an eyebrow and I asked why. "To make the colours match up." He said exasperated at

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the two of us. "Sorry if that's too far above your intelligence level, I forgot you were an idiot."  
I told him he hadn't, as he had clearly accused both Mail and I of being such when he had first noticed the Rubik's Cube. He grit his teeth, looming over me dangerously, with a temper that was quick to rise when it involved things he disliked. It wasn't just Matsuda-san who has never liked me, you understand.  
Mail got up when Mihael grabbed his arm roughly and pulled him into a standing position. "You're so stupid sometimes." Mihael had yelled back at me. "If you don't understand now, you won't ever, you know."  
And that was the truth. I understand the concept of a Rubik's Cube, and once Mihael had explained it to me back then I understood almost as quickly as he threw it at me. But to this day I cannot actually _understand_ them. I can solve a Rubik's Cube, but usually I do not recognize quite how or even that I did it until it is a box with solid-coloured sides adorning it as it is supposed to be. Sometimes I wish to believe I am merely taking the stickers off and putting them in their apparently correct places in order to win the challenge. Obviously, I must be simply blocking out these memories of doing such a thing as I would never go so low as to cheat. No, that's very wrong, as I very easily would. But the entire story shows that I was a child who wasn't designed for basic, easy and somewhat obvious knowledge like how to solve a Rubik's Cube, or even what one was. Mail wasn't either. Mihael only knew because he had learned from other people what it was and how to do it properly, and found it very amusing that it was a puzzle I couldn't solve. Other simple things I could never manage to do was getting a slinky to fall down the stairs as it was meant to, and bouncing a ball. It was proved to me later that I wasn't just an idiot and I was merely over thinking things, but as an heir to who was believed to be the cleverest man in the world (and who was soon to be discovered to be merely the second, but still, that is a good place of power), it had made me panic, and realise that social skills could come in handy. Naturally, my very being wouldn't allow me to turn this knowledge into actions until I was 23, 4 months and 16 days old and it was very necessary then and from that day on became necessary. Before then it hadn't been, and thus-  
No, I refuse to continue on this train of thoughts. I am running in circles, and this does not feel comfortable to me. As a forewarning, I am going to say that I am not comfortable with the majority of this book. Not because of what it contains as such, but what it is saying underneath the guise of a confession of a policeman. Detective Touta Matsuda is dead and beyond caring anymore, as is everyone else, as I have previously mentioned, bar Mrs. Loud, who is beyond rationality. The contents in the following pages are more confessions than only Matsuda-san's or mine, but confessions from the recording of the day-to-day logs, or scrap pieces of paper

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Matsuda-san had found all those years ago when my predecessor was still alive and the police was still involved in the case as much as the Taskforce. He squirreled them away only to show you now, and they provide hand-writing and secrets unlike what I could ever pretend to know, and Matsuda-san could never hint at you subconsciously on his own. You can't understand the weight of this book until you read it through however many times it takes you to comprehend what it is saying, or what the conversations Matsuda-san has managed to keep or what the log has reviled and what they really are admitting behind the lies. Read with an innocent eye at first, do not try to figure it all out. Then with a cynical one. Criticise. Finally, read with confidence that this is the truth. Do not doubt me, or Matsuda-san, or those logs. I may lie, but Matsuda-san has not lied since the 28th January, 2010. He was 32 back then, and it was a long time ago. He died in 2055. I'm sure you do not need to do maths well to realise that is forty-five years of refusing to lie to another human being. That's more than enough time for it to be a complex, as I'm sure you'll agree. It's 'his' fault, you will also find out. And you will finally learn who 'he' is.  
Am I being mysterious, or just annoying? Unfortunately, Mihael once told me I will never learn the difference between each and always live until I die believing myself mysterious when actually I am merely irritating. I'm inclined to believe that I believed him when it told me, thus making such a statement a self-fulfilling prophecy. I wonder what else is my fault that ultimately went wrong. Some believe the tiny amount of electricity your brain makes as it works is enough to effect the course of you life. Maybe this is no different. Maybe I have changed the entire world inadvertently. Or maybe it was deliberate. You just don't know with us clever people. I apologise for the sarcasm, that too must be rather annoying. Or maybe I'm not really sorry, who knows?  
Which returns us to the idea of the perfectly modest and clever person I spoke of earlier. I'm sure we all know one. Well, I never did, but I knew of one, which makes me bitter towards them. I believe that if you never knew one personally, on a friendly basis, then you never quite understand how someone can be so good and so nice. Regarding my own experience, and the idea of Mail's lack of social ability, as well as my own, and the aggression that came hand-in-hand with Mihael's intelligence, it all suggests to me that such a perfect being cannot be possible. Yet, they're everywhere. Once you know them you can't help but like them, but before then and when you're not with them you don't want to feel such positive emotions. You want to hate them and you want to be jealous, because they're everything the opposite gender wants all in one perfect partner, and they're everything a teacher wants in a perfect student. Then you find they're everything you want in a perfect friend, and from there on out it's hard to escape the embrace of affection you feel for them, innocent or not.

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I speak of things I understand little of, but it's my own way of rationalising what my predecessor saw in his enemy. You will most probably forget what I have said here by the time you reach the point where it is all explained and where it all comes to light. Forgive the pun you will not understand, please. I take no pleasure in saying it, the very word sending me into defence mode.**_[4]_** There are a lot of hints, and some places where hints are so absent it seems almost a sin for something so strange to be so innocent, and therefore there must be something deeper. Perhaps this is merely me as a detective, but I am not lying in saying that there is something more than what meets you on the page. But that is only what Matsuda-san has written. The fact is there is so much in the logs and in scraps and personal notes that you're so inclined to disbelieve the words that are written that you know them to be true. I myself was surprised how accurate the descriptions, how honest the words. I hated it, because I knew it instantly to be true. We detectives develop a sixth-sense of detecting lies from truths. It is, after all, our jobs. If we couldn't even tell the signs of a lie we would be truly incompetent. I am not incompetent. So believe me when I say that what is in these pages are not false.

Stories. Stories was what inclined me to write this introduction and edit this book, add to it and make it more than just the memoirs of a detective forty-five years passed his prime. By 'prime' I do not mean skill-wise. Or even experience-wise, for he had much of both, especially in his old age. I mean… well, I suppose I mean innocence-wise. Matsuda-san, when I knew him from before this all ended – I knew of him only by learning about him from files and surveillance, admittedly, but I think that was enough to generally understand him - was a skilled detective whose abilities matured and got better over time, but was just above average back then, and nothing like the other men on the Task Force. He was naïve, sweet, trusting, and such attributes were dangerous in that world and with that job. Maybe some people don't remember that world anymore, but I do. I was told to always be on high-alert, and I was brought up acting like I was going to be killed at any given time. This means that even now I am paranoid, but with being social comes having to put your guard down. This is fairly obvious, else I'd be arresting people left and right for assault when there was none, or anticipation to murder or something equally ridiculous. I once arrested a man on the charge of anticipation to rape, I recall. This was on one of my first few outings, and I was almost in the centre of a very ugly lawsuit. Of course, that I was right changed quite a few things, but that is not the point I'm trying to make.  
My predecessor was a secretive man. He and I only met twice, and the first time was, admittedly, somewhat awkward, but we were both stubborn genii and Mihael eventually freed us both of the

_**- - -**__**  
[4]**_ I don't know what word you're talking about, of course.

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suffocating silence we had been sharing in order to be the centre of attention once again. Mihael had a rather serious issue with getting attention, and usually went to extremes to get it. I am especially talking about in his later life, though it wasn't attention off the same person it used to be.  
But what I gained in that silence was perhaps more than what I could have learned with endless hours of talking with the man. Once again I am referring to my predecessor. He wasn't an easy person to watch; his fidgeting made me want to fidget and I didn't ever do such a thing. I play, even to this day, around with games and figurines in order to arrange – or, usually, to demonstrate – my thoughts into an order that makes sense to both myself and those of lower intelligence. Likewise, the man who had joined me in awkward silence made his hands busy too, normally with food, and curled up in a way I started to unconsciously copy to a point (I only curl up one leg) about two weeks after I first saw him.  
There was something obscene about him; something fascinating. He was ugly, rude, blunt and skinny, but he was clever and weird and that's all I can say. He wore a white shirt, which I presumed was forced upon him when he attended the orphanage (as we all were required to wear blank clothes until we reached the age where we could make our own money and buy new ones). I only ever fell out of the habit of white clothes when I was forcefully carted off to a medical institution of psychological health due to the fact I, apparently, looked like an inmate. I thought this was a weak excuse and eventually they admitted that I looked and acted 'funny'. This was just as weak to me, as so do many other people, and what did 'funny' mean, anyway? Mentally incapacitated? Because that I certainly was not. Or odd. Because that I could understand somewhat. Or did they mean actually amusing. I fail to see how anyone can find their amusement in watching insane people fall apart, but it is I who am the social recluse, so perhaps you bugs of normal society could enlighten me? My number is 07530877969**_[5]_**, so please drop me a text.

I have gone in an opposite direction to what I intended to go. I intended to tell you that my predecessor wore a white shirt, thin and easy to breathe in, and a pair of baggy jeans which held everything he needed: a pen, some paper, a plastic fork and a mobile phone. He even had headphones and a USB connector for something he didn't seem to have with him. He had a long piece of ribbon that was a dark green and some empty sweet wrappers.  
He slouched, and it caused me to slouch somewhat as well. I didn't mean to copy his mannerisms because I knew he wouldn't like that, but maybe that was why I did it. I wasn't trying to be him; I was trying to be better than him by showing everyone (in an admittedly very childish manner) how little I thought of him. I

- - -  
**_[5]_** The Ed: Don't bother. It's not real.

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thought the world of his title, and wanted it for my own, but I hated him as a person very quickly, and far too easily.

The second time I met him he actually spoke to me. He told me of America and Russia and China and India, places I wanted to go desperately, and made sure I could speak all the languages and adopt the necessary accents at the drop of a hat. I could do that, but what I couldn't do was act a person out. I didn't know how good of an actor he was until he straightened himself out and changed his tone completely (I also adopted my monotone from him, but I think also I was taught it by my carer and my lack of emotions). He became a different person for an instant, but only for so long. It made me believe that for the first time in my life I was imagining things. But then I saw it again as he left, talking with my carer, and then to someone he knew less well. He was different around them than he was around me. He was more careful, and more casual. With me he was stricter, more curled up, less open. I didn't know whether the openness was an act to my carer, or whether the closed attitude he had taken on with me was an act for me to see through. Mihael got someone completely different when he spoke with the man, I think. That, or the younger boy was merely blinded by the stars he got in his eyes.  
Funny, actually, that Mihael never took on the same personality or actions of the man like I did. I shared many attributes with him, and Mihael none. Maybe it was the passion. Our predecessor had little of that from what I had learned of him through our brief and few meetings.  
He never did decide between us to title one of us an heir. It was Mihael's hate for me that decided. A shame as we worked well together. Or, to rephrase, we had the potential to work well together.  
Finally, the last thing about my predecessor, as I wish to talk of him no more: The last time he came to the orphanage he stole a single stainless steel fork from a new set the cook had bought. I watched him do it, and I think my carer figured it out soon enough, but by then he was long gone. I think he was in South Africa for a while before he wound up in Romania, and then Russia, then Iceland, and then Japan. That was from what Mihael found out. I trust in his abilities of stalking the man so I have no reason to doubt him, and neither do you.

I think what went wrong was the ending. I never felt comfortable with it; the idea of the supernatural put more than just me on edge, as found out with this book. Still, I watched the happenings with objectivity and refused to be affected or angered by the progressive happenings. I thought I had no right to interfere, but looking back shows that as a human being (besides what everyone else thinks, as I am more than just a computer) I had every right to

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stop what was happening and map it out in my own way. But I think I was scared of death.  
Death had come so close then, and I wasn't even twenty. It was a feeling that wasn't comfortable. I wanted to live my life, and refused to die like so many others had. I wanted to be the one to follow through to the end and be there as he fell.  
I was. I didn't like it. But recalling the events, I think it would be worse for me if I hadn't been there. My name was reviled then and now again, by a deranged psycho who almost killed me twice in one night. I still am thankful that the deranged psycho's equally deranged psychopathic follower was blinded and dumbed down by love and…well, deranged followings.  
I realise I won on luck alone, as I was battling an enemy who was always five steps ahead. That makes it hard, quite obviously. He also had the world backing him, and few resisting. He was the head of the main resisters. This made him even harder to catch. Luckily, he too was becoming overwhelmed with emotion, growing tired of the games, and leaving it to others to do his bidding. That's a bad move, as others are always stupid. Stupider than you, anyway. They don't quite understand how much they have in their hands: the entire future, possibly. Indeed with this case. Strange, that someone like him would leave so much entrusted in one person. I wouldn't have thought it possible had I not seen it with my own team and used it for my own gain. I think it was a good thing that he made one really bad decision, else I know I wouldn't be alive, even though I don't think I would have set up the warehouse stunt. Life seems to have its own little system of justice. Sometimes I thank it, but most of the time it gets in the way. It's irritating, and the irritation is irrational. I'm irritated at thin air. But I think now I'm open to ideas of anything. The supernatural is neither super nor natural, but it's real, and it's terrifying. I could potentially believe in the possible existence of anything I imagine, and that too is terrifying in itself, as I have a fairly decent imagination.

I think, at the end, there was nothing left but a front and an evil entity which had taken over a noble, brilliant mind. Maybe that's giving too much sympathy, but I was there when he died, and I saw what was left of him. He wasn't who he was meant to be, who he could have been, or who is described in this book. Yes, I could say that about anyone, as anyone could potentially be someone else. But if they're potentially someone else, they're not actually that someone else. Which is unfortunate for him, as if he were that potential person begging instead of the entity which had taken over, I think his killer would instead have targeted me. This, naturally, is very lucky for me in some ways, and not in some others, as I would have enjoyed studying him.

He, though, I think, was weary of the game. He had killed off the main player years previous and I knew he never saw me as a fair

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replacement. Maybe I wasn't, because I think there was something more to them than the fronts hiding the killer and the detective, and then that uncomfortable truth hid the other truth behind them. We won't ever know for sure, of course, but it's one theory at least. I think it's true, even if no one - even he - didn't realise it. Grief can eventually kill absolutely anyone, I think. Even him.

This is the end of my introduction, and for the last few words, I only just realised I haven't yet introduced myself. Hello, my name is Nate River. And I'm the reason we're all still alive.

– Nate River  
5th July, 2055  
Winchester, England

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Jack: Concepts: Death_ Note_ - Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata  
_House _of Leaves - Marx Z. Danielwski

Characters - Death _Note - _Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata  
Front Page - Background writing, _House_ of Leaves, The Holloway Tape, pages 333-335, text plus foot_note_ and French translation - Mark Z. Danielewski

Page XVII: Wiki-answers webpage mentioned in footnote 2 and †: wiki dot answers dot com slash Q slash who_said_'Keep_your_friends_close_and_your_enemies_closer'

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter I

Une maladie de l'esprit

* * *

**What God Did Not Plan On**

* * *

**I**

_It's done with, no use living in the past. Now what about this case we haven't been working on?_

_- _Dennis Thomas Roy **_[6]_**

I've never been good with languages, and I suppose I never will be. English is always a good thing to learn, but wasn't something I was particularly good at when I was younger. As I grew I learnt a lot of English from my Chief and friends and the cleverest people in the world, and then when I couldn't stand Japan any longer I had to learn pretty quick, else I wasn't going to survive in America. Of course I headed for New York, because, truthfully, where else would you go?  
Besides, Ryuzaki had left us all a pretty sum, and that was what got me a nice place in Manhattan, for before then I had no reason to dip into my savings because we already always had accommodation and what not. Raito-kun and Yagami-san had paid for a lot of the hotels we ended up holed up in, because they both said it was only money. Raito-kun didn't like being reminded that the money was given to him and to us by Ryuzaki.  
It was odd being alone in the world all of a sudden. Thankfully, New York is only marginally less busy than Tokyo so the culture shock wasn't too sudden. Naturally, it comes down on us all, and I was very ill over the first year of being in America, and wanted to go home. But I stayed, reminding myself what was left over there in Japan: some people who were getting fed up of me and a steadily growing crime rate. I knew it'd be the same in America, except no one hated me.  
I don't like talking about myself, but I can hardly talk in third person, else it'd just be like a story. I am not trying to create a story here. I'm trying to account for my life before I end up not remembering any of this or I die. I'm unsure which will come first.  
I used to be afraid of death. Not so much anymore. I have always run from it, and now I don't see why. I've been faced with it every day since I became a detective and I am not scared of a corpse or a killer, no. I am not afraid. But I used to be, because I didn't want to find out what came next. What is worse is that now I know, and yet it's not calmed me. Nothing waits, and _**nothing is physical**_. It's...  
There are things which scare me, and things which don't. I'm afraid of maybe one or two people. I'm afraid of alligators and I'm afraid of banana spiders. I'm not afraid of pens, or paper, but I'm wary of black _note_books. I suppose it's to be expected, but I feel stupid when I break out in sweat just because a colleague is jotting down information. Black is a good color, because it's dark, it's neutral. It's scary.  
I don't remember much of 2010. I was in Japan until March 2012, but I remember the first month vividly, and then February was dull, depressing and tedious. It was Raito-kun's

- - -  
**_[6]_** Doesn't exist.‡  
‡ The Ed: We did our own research, and concluded that he really doesn't exist. We have found many Dennis Thomas's and Thomas Roy's, but no Dennis Thomas Roy's.

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birthday on the 28th of February. I remember that in March some 3D film adaptation of Alice in Wonderland came out with Johnny Depp, and that Ponyo hit theatres, and then April was…was… drab. There was nothing to do but to pick up the pieces and wander back to the Police Station who had been apologizing to us profoundly for the last two months, begging for us back just because 'L' had rung up and told them that we were excellent investigators and they should be ashamed. Near didn't have to do that for us, and to be honest, he probably didn't. I think it was Lidner or Giovanni or even Rester who decided that we deserved our livelihoods back after years of chasing someone who was right in front of our noses. We were all a little depressed, and it'd be good to have something stable after so long again.

It was a terrible year, and it had only just changed seasons. We had all lost so much, and gained so little out of it. It was painful to walk back into the NPA building without the Chief, and it was terrible to think that… if things had been different… that maybe Raito-kun would be walking with us too.  
I admired the boy so much; he was just like his father. But then he turned out not to be. I still don't know how to take it.  
I was different, and people commented upon it when I did return to the NPA in May. People whom I couldn't remember for the life of me told me I had changed since they'd known me (which I swear they never did); I was more grown up. I was testy as well, and told them that they would have changed too if they'd had the guts to continue with the investigation and not chicken out like the cowards they were. People stayed away from me after that. Either they were nervous about being around me, or they were ashamed. I hope it was both, because the more people we could have had the quicker we could have solved it. Less people would have died!  
There were some faces which weren't there but that I remember - they had been weeded out and killed, and I felt no sorrow for them. I had been desensitized very quickly, and those who hadn't been there in January, or in fact since 2003, would not have known or appreciated why. Ide, Mogi and Aizawa stayed by me a lot, because they felt similar. Aizawa and I weren't exactly the best of buddies still, and no one can really call Mogi a chatter box, so Ide and I became friends quicker. Ide was Aizawa's best friend though, and I didn't take them away from that relationship because Aizawa needed Ide as a friend due to the loss of Ukita, even if it were so many years ago now. I eventually found Yamamoto, who put up with me despite my newly found drinking habits and miserable attitude.  
A year later was the last time I heard from Near. I think he had a lot to do with the Japanese Police – seeing as Aizawa was the new Head of the NPA by that point. Not a bad position, I must say, but it meant that Near had a reason to keep your phone number. He led us to the Yellowbox Warehouse. It wasn't funny. I quit the NPA a month later.  
Another month and I was gone from Japan completely. I think Yamamoto was really happy about that at first, but eventually he started to call me up and talk to me at stupid hours. I became his best friend for some unknown reason, and him mine. We both liked to talk, we both liked to whine, I was bitter and he was naïve. It shouldn't have worked out, but it did and it was nice to have a friend who I could look at and not have them bring up memories of times I'd rather forget.  
I've read a lot about suppressing memories. I remember Ryuzaki lecturing to us a lot about it when I really didn't care less at a time when Raito-kun was deaf to his theories and Ryuzaki was confused about whatever the hell a genius could get confused about (which must have been something I couldn't even begin to comprehend, never mind understand

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enough to be confused about), but in America I found I had a lot of money and a lot of time to study. I did another degree, this time in psychology, and was especially interested in the Freudian philosophies and psychodynamics. I didn't want to become a psychologist, because I was a detective, and damn, I was good at it. But, I found that what Ryuzaki and Raito-kun had always argued about stuck in my head due to years of training to memorize everything that's set down in front of you, just in case, and as I did my degree I found out about all the mind twisting ways they had played with each other – they had known this innately, which I didn't find very fair, but they also had IQs of over 200, so they were forgiven.  
I never suppressed my memories, because I had always before been an open book. I was stupid, and had a big mouth, and a lot of pointless opinions. I faced them instead. I make a lot of references to Ryuzaki and Raito-kun even now, and though I am far from ever properly forgiving or understanding why Raito-kun ever did what he did do, it doesn't mean I should deny that at one point I trusted him above anyone else.  
A lot of literature has been made about 2003-2010. It's a long time; longer than World War II. Millions of people died. Hundreds per week, LORD but this was only a minute collection of people doing the killing, not a whole group of Nazi's all killing Jews in huge rooms designed for the purpose. These were singular people, poised with a pen and sitting ready in front of the television. A funny image for a murderer, and not one that is entirely accurate, but it's close enough.  
Well, actually the books start at 2004, but the real trail begins in November. For myself it was the 2nd of December, and then officially on the 4th, but that's nitpicking and I can come back to that later.  
I'm not completely sure where I want to start. I could start at the beginning, but it seems too soon to actually begin properly. You don't understand what we went through even before the investigation started, or how we felt when we realized this was murder.  
I can't even start at the ICPO meeting, because that's too far in.  
I've read a lot of literature which supposedly holds the "truth" about the time, but it's all bollocks, to be blunt.  
They start by saying who it is, as if kids don't know, and how it all began. Of course, that varies from book to book, but the official textbooks they use in school say that it started with the death of Arico Talbot – a notorious criminal, charged with the murdering of her entire (innocent) family due to the insurance she'd receive to pay off the loans she'd acquired from her expensive lifestyle. They say it had pissed him off so much that he had to kill her. The method of killing is, of course, still a mystery to most people. They then said the second significant happening was the death of Lind L. Taylor. He too was a murderer on death row, but one that had been arrested quietly. I'll go into that more later, but it was significant because it was the official outcry of war between two seemingly almost-gods with no names and no faces. They were tracking each other without anything to go on, and yet they found each other quickly; easily. It was stunningly shocking, to be honest.  
The rest of the textbooks then list all the more memorable victims, and then go into the idea of moral philosophy. Of course, these are the University textbooks, or the A-level ones. Younger kids only get a very basic overview over the course of about five months in their fourth year of secondary school. They're also required to sit an exam on the subject at the end of their fifth year to make sure it's sunk in. I think I'd fail the exams, because those books are lies and I know the truth.  
Strange, to think that I am actually mentioned in those textbooks, and then the main characters weren't. It was like Cinderella without Cinderella actually in it. They give me the chills to read, because they mention the Chief briefly due to his death more than his actual

XXXVIII

* * *

involvement, and it's creepy to think children across the world are going to sit down in a big room and sit an exam on it – mentioning his name as the head of the Task Force, maybe even mentioning mine and Mogi's and Aizawa's. There would also be Ukita, who died outside of Sakura TV; no doubt he was a notable death. It's just so weird to think about; strange to see your name in a book about an investigation you don't recognize at all, but what is funnier is to read it through and be able to not understand your own native tongue. Phrases that say "捜査チームは無能され、および停止することができません殺人者数百人が死亡. 彼らは、ゼロリードが見つかりました人々の許可千人死ぬ手をこまぬいて座ってとお茶を飲む" made, to me, about as much sense as "私のホバークラフトは鰻でいっぱいです"_[7]_. I hear the words, but I don't understand what it is saying to me.  
I'm not angry, that is the first point I want to make. I don't see Raito-kun in any less a positive light than before. Well, obviously he's a little worse in my eyes, but he was still someone I looked up to, and over the years the bad memories fade and just leave the really good ones, like when we forced Ryuzaki and Raito-kun to make up after a particularly nasty fight, or when Raito-kun figured out the Yotsuba connection, or when Ryuzaki made us sit down and watch _Finding Nemo_ in order to improve our English. We weren't even allowed subtitles. I'm not going to elaborate on any of this at the moment; it will all become apparent as I continue on.  
Just to deviate from the point here somewhat, I've noticed something important in my time as a detective, and you'll probably think I'm crazy, but I am deaf to your complaints, so will continue on, regardless: people die in threes.  
I don't hear you, but I'm sure that, unless you've noticed it yourself, you'll all be, as decent readers, questioning me and my sanity no doubt. I'm not mad, I will say, because it's true. Deaths happen in threes. I don't mean that serial killers kill three people, as that is plainly ridiculous. You'll see that, as I decide to start elaborating more and making sense of both my own mind and projecting it into my writing that murders themselves don't happen in threes, usually happening only singularly or _en mass_.  
Maybe it's just one of those unwritten rules, like φ **_[8]_**. It's a bit ironic to me as a Japanese native, as our number of death is 'four'

- - -  
**_[7] _**一つの言語は決して十分ではない▲  
▲ The Ed: We couldn't quite figure out what the first phrase said, we think Matsuda Touta's Japanese was too mixed with English to make any sense by this time in his life. But we think it meant to say "The investigation team were incompetent and not able to stop the murderer who killed hundreds. They found no leads and allowed thousands of people to die without doing anything, sitting by idly and drinking tea.", thereabouts, and the second "My hovercraft is full of eels". Nate River's own translations were "One language is never enough". We assume this means he won't be translating the Japanese for the reader.

**_[8]_** 1.6180339887... I.E. The Golden Ratio. If one has ever used, or even heard of I might venture, the Golden Rule 'Love thy Neighbour' then it's on a similar line of thought. _a + b is to a as a is to b_. The idea that God has projected this 'beautiful' number into the world, and is found in all living things, including plants, animals and humans. Also known as Golden Section or Golden Mean. Artists in the Renaissance at least proportioned their work to the Golden Rectangle which followed the same rule as the Golden Ratio. Also known as φ like so (in lower case), which in Greek has a numeric value of 500, and is pronounced 'p', though the transliteration in modern times is 'f', as opposed to the more ancient transliteration of 'ph'. Personally, I think the latter makes more sense.

XXXIX

* * *

This rule of three has to be a force of nature, as it is also cruel like nature is, as it happens to only those you personally care about. Don't be confused by me, I don't mean you as a real person, though I am sure you are one of those. I mean as a general term, it doesn't happen in threes if I only hear of a death and am not emotionally involved, or in fact in any way connected. It only happens if I am connected to said victim, a friend or relative perhaps. Then, soon, someone else will die. Later, someone else.  
I first noticed this when I was about 15. My Grand Mother died, and then five days later so did my friend's father. Two people who never met or even knew of each others existence. I didn't find it strange, though, I merely found it unfortunate. Two weeks or so later my cat got run over. Another coincidence, you may say, but I found it all very traumatizing and so drew a wild conclusion about death in threes together.  
Then it happened to a girl in my class. Her mother was in the famous Nagoya Horror**_[9]_**, and died instantly, then weeks later, her brother died of some unknown illness that the doctors – according to the records most easily dug up – would still be puzzling over, were they that interested. Finally, she herself was struck down by a motorbike when walking home from Cram School one night.  
I heard about all this from a particularly hysterical mutual friend of ours when I went to pay her my respects. I think it helps my point, though not proving it entirely. I wouldn't say that you too should watch out for when someone from your own family dies, even though maybe you should, but I at least want you to regard it as not some crazy rant from a deranged, senile old police officer. Police Officers don't go senile, thank you very much. Only old people do that. Policemen don't grow old, they grow distinguished.  
I have a point to this, I promise.  
The _point_ is that when the death toll goes up, it doesn't just rise at a steady pace: it c_onstantly rises at three times the speed than predicted._ I'm not making this shit up, I've seen it every time it happens whenever I'm put on a murder case. I was also in the middle of the biggest murder case in history so I trust you to trust me in knowing what I'm talking about when I tell you this.  
No, you probably think I'm some senile old coot. Well, maybe I am, but I'm not a liar.

Maybe I've left you hanging long enough. I need to introduce myself properly, and then after that, I will finally tell you what this book is about. Chapter one all these words may be, but we haven't yet gotten far enough to confidently say we have started.  
First and foremost, I am Matsuda Touta, a detective of the FBI, and, as I've said before, I'm good at what I do. I have had years of training, and then more years of watching my betters to develop my own skills and become a better myself. I now do training programs myself and am Chief Superintendant. Well, I am for another three months. I go into retirement soon, though I am unsure of how I feel about it. I have plenty of money, too much really, as I never got through all the funds Ryuzaki left – him putting aside enough for us all

- - -  
**_[9]_** "The Nagoya Horror", so called, was a terrible plane crash in the middle of Nagoya, strangely. Supposedly 217 of people died on the plane, and approximately 500 on the road, as it landed on a bridge which in turn landed on the cars below on a super-highway. Of course, this is not real. What he means is the very un-famous reference to such a happening in the obscure cult-classic 'Radio Sick' by Jeremy Dale.◊  
◊The Ed: Also shockingly non-existent.

XL

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to live in perfect comfort and luxury without having to ever work another day in our lives. Ryuzaki was a good man. But my money, my pension, my retirement fund, it's all useless. Not for everyone, of course, it'll keep a roof over my head and the money that has been put aside for my funeral seems, almost depressingly, like pocket change. It'll be useful for when I am gone, and for feeding my grandchildren when they come to visit, but there are more important things in life. I realize that in full clarity now, though I think I've always valued other things much higher than money.  
Things like forgiveness; I exercise it day-by-day. It took me a long time to really understand forgiveness, and even longer to apply it, but now – even though forgiveness can never be fully reached – I feel calmer, less turbulent. It brings happiness in a way. With the peace it settles in your stomach comes the joy of knowing you are a better person. I'm not bitter, and I'm not angry. At least, not about the same thing anymore. Not to the same person.  
No, I'm angry at what could possibly be the world. At the people I don't know, or couldn't know, or I never got time to forgive. Sometimes I don't even know what I mean by that myself, but those books I mentioned earlier, they were the tipping point, one might say, what started this whole thing off. I mean the book. The truth. If there is one thing I value more than forgiveness its truth.  
This is definitely the truth. I can't rant so much about anything that is anything less, which I think serves as valuable enough evidence. Not proof, I'm going to add. I remember getting a very stern word when I thought they were one and the same. Ryuzaki was quick in correcting me, as he always was. Although I remember all the good times, I can also see now that Ryuzaki – and in fact most of the investigation team – were really quite mean, thinking me less able and somewhat useless.  
Of course, back then I was, but they didn't know me. They do now, and if Aizawa-san were still breathing I know he'd have much to say on the subject of me. Seeing as I am still a part of the police and he was the head of the NPA we often had contact, though not quite as often as one may think. Japan and America are still worlds apart, you understand. But when forced to work together again, I know he found the new me nothing less than infuriating. I thought the same of him, what with my newly opened eyes. I respected him, of course, but there were a hundred others whom I will always respect more. Most of them are dead, and I miss them greatly. Some are alive, and I hate them. It's a funny world we live in, and it is true when someone says that you don't realize what you have until it's gone. I'm just thankful that no one truly important to me, such as my children or my grandchildren, has left me before I left them. Only my wife, struck down by breast cancer five years ago, has departed. I loved her while she was alive, but we always argued. I still love her and I always will, and thankfully I can no longer feel the painful impact that all our arguments left on me – just powerful surges of affection every time I am reminded of her. My youngest son, who had never completely gotten along with her until the doctor diagnosed her, rushed to her bedside in tears as soon as he heard. He won't be happy for me saying this to the world, but it's evidence once again of a point which has been most unhelpfully been forgotten. I am definitely getting old.

So, to recap on myself, because I am appropriately vain like that and seeing as this is my book, my story (and, as I'm sure that everyone will initially think this as a work of fiction, so I may as well call it my novel as well), I thus consider myself the main character. I am Matsuda Touta, and I am seventy-eight-years-old. I have three children, one daughter and two sons, Kenji, Chouko and Osamu, and five grandchildren, Charlie, James, Tamsin, Jade

XLI

* * *

and the youngest Anna. My wife was half-Japanese, called Elizabeth, and my second name is 'Haru'. It means 'clear up' or 'sunlight'. I became a detective as soon as I finished college, and I have shot my gun one hundred and four times whilst aiming at or into a live person. I have only missed five times. I have seen the supernatural, and with it came the most powerful weapon on earth. I have associated myself with one too many genii in my lifetime, and I have the most powerful man in the world (short of the president)'s phone number in my wallet.

Then there was Kira.

XLII

* * *

I know you knew I was talking about. Kira isn't someone who can be mistaken for anyone else. I assume everyone able to read this is also keenly aware of the names I've mentioned, having forced to suffer through learning them backwards. Except of course Raito-kun and Ryuzaki. Yagami Light, you might have heard of, and Hideki Ryuga briefly (And I don't mean the pop-star. The quote being, "Yagami Light, son of Chief Yagami Soichiro – Detective Superintendant of the Japanese National Police Agency (NPA) – was involved with the investigation in many indirect ways. Not only as the son of the head of the Kira Investigation, but also as a later boyfriend to the uprising Super Model and Japanese star, Amane Misa, accused and arrested for being the second Kira. He had assisted in his father's cases before, and was widely regarded as a prodigy, as well as being the To-Oh University spokesperson on the opening day, which he presented with fellow classmate and later friend, Hideki Ryuga. Both of them received full marks for all their entrance exams, thus making them both the top students in Japan. Hideki Ryuga disappeared mysteriously after a while, seemingly with Yagami Light along with him, until Yagami Light re-appeared years later and followed his father's career path in joining the NPA. It is presumed that he worked with Yagami Soichiro on the Kira Case, but it is not proven."**_[10]_**). But you won't have heard of Raito-kun and Ryuzaki. It's the idea of the Cinderella tale without Cinderella again. Maybe even without the Prince Charming. You just have a large collection of singing mice, a sparkling Fairy God Mother, some ugly sisters and a pumpkin. Can I put that into a Kira-like context? The general public are the mice, the Fairy God Mother being Kira, the Ugly Sisters being the few who fought against him and the pumpkin being Kira's utensil of killing. But we seem to be missing something… the true identity of Kira, and his main opponent. Without them the story is still generally there, but it's all a bit boring. That's why textbooks don't make good bedtime stories. And I suppose it's why no one knows anything properly about Kira anymore; they fall asleep in lessons out of sheer boredom. Does anyone really want to hear about how the Pumpkin was turned into a chariot; a shining beacon signaling everyone to Cinderella's arrival at the ball by the Fairy God Mother when there is no Cinderella sitting inside of it? Maybe not a shining beacon… maybe a prison guiding Cinderella to her fate. Who is Cinderella? I've made it pretty obvious, I think. I have never been one for subtlety.  
It's because I'm too honest. I can't lie and I can't hide things. You'd think on paper it'd be a whole lot easier. Well, and I don't even understand how myself, I'm just as horrifyingly open here in a book as I am in real life.  
I am going on a tangent; it's really bad for a book. I'm not structured, either, if one hasn't yet noticed this.  
Let me start with what I think of Kira.

- - -  
**_[10]_** Reference from the A2-level textbook, "The Reign of Kira, Level Two, Higher" by Keith Evans, on an English Second Year A-level Course for the History curriculum. Hideki Ryuga and Yagami Light also mentioned in "The Puzzle of Kira" by Veter Pardy , one in a long, tiring series of 'puzzle' books recommended for A-Level Philosophy and Ethics. Briefly states that "Yagami Light was rumoured to have also helped, as well as classmate Hideki Ryuga. These are statements not able to be proven, as one is dead and the other disappeared." I assume this is something that is relevant to A-level Ethics students, but I hardly see the point in the mentioning of the two men myself. Elsewhere, though, it is almost as if Yagami Light and Ryuga Hideki does not exist. And I don't mean the pop-star.  
The Ed: Peter Vardy, actually.

XLIII

* * *

_Let me introduce myself: I'm a social disease_

– Megadeath, Dread & the Fugitive Mind

Have you read 'Joker' by Brian Azzarello and illustrated by Lee Bermejo, published in 2008, taking on the idea of the Joker from Batman as a disillusioned crazy of unknown origins with a Glasgow Smile and yellow teeth. This came from the 2008 Summer Blockbuster, _The Dark Knight_, starring Christian Bale as Batman and the now legendary Heath Ledger as the Joker. A stunning performance, I must say, but I watched it for the first time in 2015 when I started dating Elizabeth and she introduced me to the wonderful world of Batman. Of course, she had the Joker comic, too.  
It's a violent piece of genius, starting with the idea of a disease on the very first page; a topic which is then dropped until the end. Throughout the story, the main character, Jonny Frost, joins the Joker's gang and gains the trust of the deranged man by sticking along side him and being a general source of entertainment.  
At the end the Batman joins the fray, having successfully avoided the Joker and all the other super-villain cronies the Joker has managed to tie into his mad scheme through the entirety of the story, only summoned when called upon by a distraught Two-Face armed with a floodlight and a tub of black paint. The Batman, efficient as always, takes out all of them until it's only the Joker and Jonny left, both of which wind up on a bridge whilst running away.  
The Joker, mad with rage, excitement and adrenaline, lashes out as he shows his true colors to Jonny, punching him and shooting him, and then being distracted by a Batman and taunting the man who gives as good as he gets back and better, sending the Joker into a wild frenzy of both misplaced glee and understandable anger. Jonny ends the book with cold words, exclaiming how he is at the top of the world looking down. He then says 'Do you know what I see? Do you **want** to know what I see?'. He is crawling on shaking hands and knees to the edge of a deserted bridge, ignoring the vicious fight of the two arch-enemies behind him, neck bleeding, dripping a steady trail of blood behind him.  
'I see you', his thought box says, as a detailed and most stunning inked picture of the Joker brandishing a knife accompanies it. 'A **disease**.'  
In the next panel he is climbing up the side of the bridge, as if to right himself up. 'One that has been around longer than Gotham, the city infected.'  
'Older than any city', he continues on as we see Batman's blurred fist splattered with blood that is not his own in the next picture. 'Hell, it was probably the same disease that built the **first** one.'  
He peers over the side of the bridge, seemingly struggling with panic and pain in his blue eyes. 'There will **always** be a Joker', he claims. 'Because there's **no cure** for him', he peers round briefly, though it is unclear whether it's to see the fight or if he is just checking they aren't paying him any attention. 'No cure at **all**', is the last panel on that page, and a dynamic shot of the Batman looking as indifferently furious as usual (an expression which I myself know all too well, having been the brunt of it from too many poker-faced individuals), and the Joker looking gruesomely amused.  
On the last page of the comic is a shot of the bridge, the Joker and the Batman invisible behind the shadows the night causes, and below is the river. Careful and wonderful observation skills help you discover a little figure falling. One must presume that it is Jonny Frost.  
He concludes: '…Just a Batman'.

XLVI

* * *

I find it oddly fitting. I do not expect you to see it as you don't know what it's meant to fit. If you do I can only conclude you are a super genius or Near. Or both, if you really are Near. I hope you're not, because even then I don't know if you will see.  
There are plenty of songs I could quote from, such as the famous**_[11]_** song 'The Crows Are Coming for Us' by From First To Last: "Hidden in the glitter is the real thing." Once again, you won't see the relevance where I do.  
I'm sorry, but I don't think I plan to make myself clear. I don't know quite how to do such a thing without revealing everything all at once. I've planned this book out, somewhat, if you'll believe me on that, and it's all in a sensible chronological order. I would like to keep it that way, as if I don't it'll come out as a more artistic and less physical interpretation of brain goo, and some people don't like brain goo.  
No, I couldn't quite figure out how to make that last sentence seem less stupid.  
Let's go back-a-ways a few thousand words, we were talking about the year 2010.

Do you remember 2010? I do, as I believe we have already established. Dark clouds hung over me all throughout that year. It wasn't a time I could easily forget.  
I remember learning a lot, deciding to lose myself in the world of knowledge and seeing if I could rise above those idiots I had always looked up to by having to research and work to be clever, rather than knowing it all practically innately. Snippets of things I remembered being mentioned in conversations I could never keep up with I looked up and spend a tiring amount just remembering. I had to, it was the only way I could ever cope with my lack of social life, innocence or just general happiness. I was depressed, most definitely. I wasn't a good shape to be a friend to someone, and never in a good position for Aizawa to smile down at me. I think he just felt sorry for me, as if he wasn't part of it too. Or he thought I was pathetic, because I had clung onto my honest, naïve beliefs until the last possible minute. He hadn't, and had started being suspicious and untrusting months – maybe even years – before. He was willing to accept what I prayed to God was impossible, and so was practically unaffected when it turned out to be true. Maybe God is dead, or there is nothing but Shinigami. No one listened to my hardest of prayers, and no one answered. It was horrifying.  
I actually learned a lot about Mozart. Strange, the references Ryuzaki would always make. Raito-kun thought him strange for being so attached to the musician, especially considering that Ryuzaki always kept up which popular culture and was particularly fickle about the artists he enjoyed and the models he would keep up with, such as MisaMisa being an obsession only as long as it was useful to obsess about her.  
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was a prodigy. Mozart learned voraciously from others, and developed a brilliance and maturity of style that encompassed the light and graceful along with the dark and passionate—the whole informed by a vision of humanity "redeemed through art, forgiven, and reconciled with nature and the absolute."**_[12] _**His most famous student was of course Beethoven, whose early work was a shadow of Mozart's. When I listened to both the artists, I did find that true, but I also found that I much prefer Beethoven's

- - -  
**_[11]_** Hardly.

**_[12]_** Copied from Wikipedia, which doesn't quite give me the impression of a well studied student, does it you? There must be some excuse, but I don't particularly care for it. The quote, according to Wikipedia was, and this I also quote "Till, p. 320". I would say that I understand, but I don't and thus the reference I find somewhat irrelevant.

XLV

* * *

later work more than I enjoy any of Mozart's. Perhaps it is individual taste, seeing as I knew Raito-kun had always preferred Bach. I couldn't quite get into Bach, myself, but I can understand where both of them are coming from when they say that these musicians are some of the best in the history of music.

I also learned a lot about religions as I watched the Kira worshippers pause for thought as their god disappeared, and watched as thousands of people turned back to the Christian God or the Muslim God or to any other sort of entity they had previously believed in, down on their knees begging for forgiveness. Even now, since Kira has gone belief has gone up, as people are terrified of him returning.  
Naturally, there are still huge cults – one which I even performed a covert participant observational study on in order to understand, as I could not quite get my head around the obsession. My visit was cut short by my personal emotions and memories. But the cults are to be expected, I suppose. Something so powerful and something which never came to the light, something that was so… supernatural… well, people are amazed by it; want to know more. Most, though, shield away. Yet there are always those which wish to harness the power, or to bring Kira back. They pray for his return, wish him back so criminals are once again punished. There are a lot of victims of crimes who wish revenge who join these relious cults, and a lot of idealistic parents and children, and all are innocent people. I cannot say that they are evil to be in a cult, because they're not. They honestly saw Kira as the ultimate power, like the vengeful God in the Old Testament when he sent the flood to wipe out all those who were evil in the world, sparing Noah and his innocent family and two of every animal who are quite simply too dumb to be truly evil.  
That was slightly cynical, but it's what the Bible preaches. We are the cleverest, so the most capable of evil.  
Whilst on the subject, I also learned about the problem of evil, and the Christian God. Yes, only because I know enough about Shinto to rant at large about it, and I don't care enough about the rest of them to be perfectly honest. Christianity is just interesting. Of course, Islam is also fascinating, but not quite as relevant. It was Raito-kun that sparked this interest in Christianity when he insisted on a Christian burial for his best friend.  
The problem of evil dictates that god cannot exist simply because evil exists. God, by definition, designed a perfect world, and thus evil should not exist in said perfect world. And yet people are still cruel and nature is harmful. God is supposed to be omnibenevolent and omnipotent and omniscient and omnipresent, yet he does nothing to stop people suffering. Maybe it is some kind of test, such as in Job, or it's simply because he cannot interfere without destroying the idea of freewill, which is very important to religious believers. Stan Rice wrote "God didn't plan on consciousness  
Developing so  
Well. Well…"**_[13]_** which is both thought-provoking and useless until you put Kira into the picture, when the meaning behind it becomes quite sinister. What, I ask, would happen to your personal perceptions if Kira was a human? This is easy for me to answer, because I have known for almost as long as Kira existed that he is something of flesh and blood; hardly anything of divine proportions. Certainly not the thing that made the earth and skies.  
That's what a God is, and that's what Kira was trying to do: create a perfect new world. I think it's quite childish now, but back then some part of me actually agreed with Kira

- - -  
**_[13]_** …Tell him our pail is full and he can go to hell.*  
*The Ed: Poem, Stan Rice, found in the front of the book 'Memnoch the Devil' by Anne Rice.

XLVI

* * *

Maybe this won't be quite as truthful as I intended. I'm somewhat bias, my memories wavering, and some are completely hazy with bitterness and anger. No doubt Near will fill in the blanks when he gets his albino hands on this. Which will no doubt it'll be quite soon. This is why I must write quickly, before he has a chance to stop me.  
There were things about 2010 that I hated; it was a bad year, worse even than 2009 and that wasn't brilliant, either. People died, deceptions crashed, and Kira disappeared along with my livelihood and my idols. The world started to steadily become the same gruesome, horrible, crime-riddled place that Kira so hated once again.  
But there were things about it that I loved. I loved being able to rejoin the police, and I loved the booze and the shaky friendship I formed with Yamamoto and then the bet I made with myself about what and when I will finally have a perfectly valid and understandable reason to march right up to Aizawa and tell him I quit. It's a love-hate relationship we have, I think, which tips more towards the hate and has less to do with love than Takada had to do with Misa. Ha, ha, that's funny. Do you remember Takada Kiyomi and MisaMisa? I don't mean from the textbooks, I mean does anyone actually _remember_ seeing Takada and Misa on the television? I do, I used to love Misa. I was a pop-culture junkie, even in my thirties. That carried on long into my fifties, where I finally decided it would be fun to act like a grumpy old person to strangers and my subordinates.  
I am joking about the grumpiness, by the way. By the time my first child had born, Elizabeth had awoken what I though was long-since deceased: my chipper attitude. I think it's something about looking at a little round face and having the strangest urge to talk in a ridiculous pitch and tone of voice. Then there is the playing you have to engage in as they grow, and don't get me wrong, it was actually a lot to do with the beautiful glow that my wife had to her face when she was pregnant that made me smile more and act less like a bitter, broken man. Because I wasn't anymore. I was in a stable relationship with the most beautiful woman in the world, and she loved me for me, angry at the world or not, and so I thought I would repay her by being less a grump and more a father and a husband. Chipper works for father when your kids are young, and by the time they're grown up its long since grown back into habit and everyone is used to you being a smiling idiot by the time that you are once again allowed to drop it.  
What am I talking about, seriously? I mentioned Takada and MisaMisa not long ago. Anyway, Elizabeth didn't happen in 2010 and that's not what I'm here to write about. I'm here to talk about why 2010 was a terrible year.  
There was a lot of snow, I remember. I didn't like that. And the death rate was still high, though no one noticed that because it was still going down. Then people realized Kira was gone and there was a huge surge of crime from the most confident or the most desperate, whereas those who were neither confident nor desperate bided their time to see if the confident/desperate criminals would die. They didn't, though a lot of them were caught because the police were eager to be able to do something, and also Near was doing a lot of clean up of both himself, his newly gained title and the world. I respect him, I do, just so he knows. What he has done is noble and brave, and he deserves all the respect he has so easily gained. I just don't like him.  
I was learning English at home, and taking Yamamoto out for drinks when it was the most inconvenient for him. That was a skill I had learned off Ryuzaki, who often went out of his way (and even better, more often than not didn't _have_ to go out of his way) to irritate people at the most infuriating of times. Especially Raito-kun. You'd think the kinship would tone down Ryuzaki's aggravating verbal assaults to people, but rather I think he intensified them. Maybe it was because Raito-kun understood when he was being insulted or goaded

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when everyone else didn't that made Ryuzaki try harder, or maybe it was the battles they had between them that made Ryuzaki want to piss Raito-kun off as much and as often as possible without physical harm to himself. Sometimes he didn't even bother with boundaries, and they got into fights several times over the relatively short period of four months.  
I digress. There were also several good films that came out, and a lot of good writers rising and a lot of thankfulness in the air that the black cloud had lifted.  
And then there was the music. I loved the music.

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Credits: Concepts: Death _Note_, Tsugumi Obha and Takeshi Obata. _House_ of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski.

Page XLI: Footnote: Peter Vardy, very real, did do actual 'Puzzle' books, such as "The Puzzle of Ethics" and "The Puzzle of God". Hated by most, very confusing, makes everything twice as complicated, and the examples are really rather ridiculous.


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